That all must drink at last,

O, let me draw refreshment from the past!
Then let my soul run back,

With peace and joy, along my earthly track,
And see that all the seeds,

That I have scattered there, in virtuous deeds
Have sprung up, and have given,
Already, fruits of which to taste is heaven!
And though no grassy mound

Or granite pile say 'tis heroic ground

Where my remains repose,

Still will I hope-vain hope, perhaps !—that those
Whom I have striven to bless,

The wanderer reclaimed, the fatherless,

May stand around my grave,

With the poor prisoner, and the poorer slave,

And breathe an humble prayer

That they may die like him whose bones are mouldering there.

RICHARD H. DANA, 1787.

RICHARD H. DANA, the poet and essayist, was born in Cambridge, Massachusetts, on the 15th of November, 1787. His father, Francis Dana, was minister to Russia during the Revolution, and subsequently member of the Massachusetts Convention for adopting the Constitution, member of Congress, and chief justice of his native State. At the age of ten, the son went to live with his maternal grandfather, the Hon. William Ellery, of Newport, R. I., one of the signers of the Declaration of Independence. Here he remained till he entered Harvard College. On leaving college, in 1807, he went to Baltimore, and entered as a law student in the office of Gen. Robert Goodloe Harper. That atmosphere, however, did not suit him, and he returned and finished his studies, and commenced practice in his native town. He soon found the profession of the law too laborious for his health, and not congenial to his tastes, and he gave it up, and made an arrangement with his relative, Prof. Edward T. Channing, to assist him in conducting the “ North American Review," which had then been established about two years. In 1821, he published his "Idle Man,” in numbers, in which were some of his most admirable tales. But the general tone of it was too high to be popular, and the publication was relinquished. His first poem, "The Dying Raven," he published in

1825, in the "New York Review," then edited by the poet Bryant. Two years after, he published "The Buccaneer and other Poems," and in 1833 his "Poems and Prose Writings." His Lectures on Shakspeare, which have been delivered in many cities, he has not given to the public. In 1849, he published a new edition of his entire collected works. He resides now at a most picturesque residence in Cape Ann, and the incidents of his life are purely domestic.

The longest poem of Mr. Dana is "The Buccaneer." It is a tale of piracy and murder, and of a terrible supernatural retribution. The character of the Buccaneer, Matthew Lee, is drawn in a few bold and masterly lines. Disappointed in an effort to engage in honest trade, he makes up his mind to devote his life to piracy. A young bride, whose husband has fallen in the Spanish war, seeks a passage in his ship to some distant shore. The ship is at sea. The murderer is meditating his deed of death. The fearful scene follows. How strong, distinct, and terrible is the description of the pirate's feelings, and

THE SCENE OF DEATH.

He cannot look on her mild eye-
Her patient words his spirit quell.
Within that evil heart there lie
The hates and fears of hell.

His speech is short; he wears a surly brow.

There's none will hear her shriek. What fear ye now?

The workings of the soul ye fear;

Ye fear the power that goodness hath;

Ye fear the Unseen One, ever near,

Walking his ocean path.

From out the silent void there comes a cry:

"Vengeance is mine! Lost man, thy doom is nigh!"

Nor dread of ever-during wo,

Nor the sea's awful solitude,

Can make thee, wretch, thy crime forego.

Then, bloody hand-to blood!

The scud is driving wildly over head;

The stars burn dim; the ocean moans its dead.

Moan for the living-moan our sins

The wrath of man, more fierce than thine.
Hark! still thy waves! The work begins:

He makes the deadly sign.

The crew glide down like shadows. Eye and hand
Speak fearful meanings through that silent band.

They're gone. The helmsman stands alone,
And one leans idly o'er the bow.

Still as a tomb the ship keeps on;

Nor sound nor stirring now.

Hush, hark! as from the centre of the deep,

Shrieks! fiendish yells! They stab them in their sleep.

The scream of rage, the groan, the strife,
The blow, the gasp, the horrid cry,

The panting, stifled prayer for life,

The dying's heaving sigh,

The murderer's curse, the dead man's fix'd, still glare, And Fear's and Death's cold sweat-they all are there!

On pale, dead men, on burning cheek,

On quick, fierce eyes, brows hot and damp,
On hands that with the warm blood reek,
Shines the dim cabin lamp.

Lee look'd. "They sleep so sound," he laughing said, "They'll scarcely wake for mistress or for maid."

A crash! They've forced the door; and then
One long, long, shrill, and piercing scream
Comes thrilling through the growl of men.
"Tis hers! Oh God, redeem

From worse than death thy suffering, helpless child!
That dreadful cry again-sharp, sharp, and wild!

It ceased. With speed o' th' lightning's flash,
A loose-robed form, with streaming hair,
Shoots by. A leap! a quick, short splash!
"Tis gone! There's nothing there!

The waves have swept away the bubbling tide.
Bright-crested waves, how proudly on ye ride!
She's sleeping in her silent cave,

Nor hears the stern, loud roar above,
Or strife of man on land or wave.

Young thing! thy home of love

Thou soon hast reach'd! Fair, unpolluted thing,
They harm'd thee not! Was dying suffering?

Oh, no! To live when joy was dead;
To go with one lone, pining thought-
To mournful love thy being wed--
Feeling what death had wrought;
To live the child of wo, yet shed no tear,
Bear kindness, and yet share no joy nor fear;

To look on man, and deem it strange
That he on things of earth should brood,
When all its throng'd and busy range

To thee was solitude

Oh, this was bitterness! Death came and press'd
Thy wearied lids, and brought thy sick heart rest.

IMMORTALITY.

And with our frames do perish all our loves?
Do those that took their root and put forth buds,
And their soft leaves unfolded in the warmth
Of mutual hearts, grow up and live in beauty,
Then fade and fall, like fair unconscious flowers?

Are thoughts and passions that to the tongue give speech,
And make it send forth winning harmonies-
That to the cheek do give its living glow,
And vision in the eye the soul intense
With that for which there is no utterance-
Are these the body's accidents ?—no more ?—
To live in it, and when that dies, go out
Like the burnt taper's flame?

O, listen, man!
A voice within us speaks that startling word,
"Man, thou shalt never die!" Celestial voices
Hymn it unto our souls: according harps,
By angel fingers touched when the mild stars
Of morning sang together, sound forth still
The song of our great immortality:

Thick clustering orbs, and this our fair domain,
The tall, dark mountains, and the deep-toned seas,
Join in this solemn, universal song.

O, listen ye, our spirits; drink it in

From all the air! 'Tis in the gentle moonlight;
'Tis floating 'midst day's setting glories; Night,
Wrapped in her sable robe, with silent step
Comes to our bed, and breathes it in our ears:
Night, and the dawn, bright day, and thoughtful eve,
All time, all bounds, the limitless expanse,

As one vast mystic instrument, are touched

By an unseen, living Hand, and conscious chords

Quiver with joy in this great jubilee.

The dying hear it; and as sounds of earth

Grow dull and distant, wake their passing souls

To mingle in this heavenly harmony.

THE DEATH OF SIN AND THE LIFE OF HOLINESS.

Blinded by passion, man gives up his breath,
Uncalled by God. We look, and name it death.
Mad wretch the soul hath no last sleep; the strife
To end itself, but wakes intenser life

In the self-torturing spirit. Fool, give o'er!
Hast thou once been, yet think'st to be no more?

What! life destroy itself? O, idlest dream,

Shaped in that emptiest thing-a doubter's scheme.
Think'st in a universal soul will merge

Thy soul, as rain-drops mingle with the surge?
Or, no less skeptic, sin will have an end,
And thy purged spirit with the holy blend
In joys as holy? Why a sinner now?

As falls the tree, so lies it. So shalt thou.

God's Book, thou doubter, holds the plain record.

Dar'st talk of hopes and doubts against that Word?

Dar'st palter with it in a quibbling sense?

That Book shall judge thee when thou passest hence.
Then, with thy spirit from the body freed,

Thou'lt know, thou'lt see, thou'lt feel what's life, indeed.
Bursting to life, thy dominant desire

Will upward flame, like a fierce forest fire ;
Then, like a sea of fire, heave, roar, and dash-
Roll up its lowest depths in waves, and flash
A wild disaster round, like its own wo-
Each wave cry, "Wo for ever!" in its flow,
And then pass on-from far adown its path
Send back commingling sounds of wo and wrath-
Th' indomitable Will then know no sway:
God calls-Man, hear Him; quit that fearful way!

Come, listen to His voice who died to save
Lost man, and raise him from his moral grave;
From darkness showed a path of light to heaven;
Cried, "Rise and walk; thy sins are all forgiven."

Blest are the pure in heart.

He'll cleanse thy spotted soul.

Wouldst thou be blest?

Wouldst thou find rest?

Around thy toils and cares he'll breathe a calm,

And to thy wounded spirit lay a balm,

From fear draw love, and teach thee where to seek
Lost strength and grandeur, with the bowed and meek.
Come lowly; He will help thee. Lay aside
That subtle, first of evils-human pride.
Know God, and, so, thyself; and be afraid
To call aught poor or low that he has made.

Fear naught but sin; love all but sin; and learn
How that, in all things else, thou may'st discern
His forming, his creating power-how bind
Earth, self and brother to th' Eternal Mind.

THE MOTHER AND SON.

"The sun not set yet, Thomas ?" "Not quite, sir. It blazes through the trees on the hill yonder as if their branches were all on fire."